


Dude (Looks Like a Lady)

by ariaadagio



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Baby snuzzles, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariaadagio/pseuds/ariaadagio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshot. Derek is called into the hospital to deal with a VIP patient. Mischief ensues. Includes Stewart, baby snuzzles, MerDer snuzzles, and miscellaneous fluff. Not LST canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dude (Looks Like a Lady)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story originally for fundraising for the Dempsey Challenge in 2012, almost two years ago at this point. It was basically an excuse to write some Stewart, unrepentant fluff, and baby snuzzles. No angst for once! This idea was inspired by a friend who encountered a doctor in the same grooming predicament as Derek in this story. We were speculating how this could possibly happen, and this is my 9000 word answer. Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> P.S. This is not part of LST canon.

Toddlers, Derek decided after careful consideration, did not toddle. They moved at the speed of light. And they got their hands into **everything**.

Meredith had been in such a hurry to get out the door that evening, she'd forgotten her purse, but by the time Derek had realized she'd left it behind, her Jeep's taillights had already waned to pinpoints, far down the street by the four-way stop. He'd called her cell phone to see if she would come back for the purse. Turned his head for a damned nanosecond. And off Zola had shot like a cannonball with legs.

Meredith's purse in the foyer rang, directing his daughter's attention.

“No!” he managed to blurt, leaving the phone off the hook behind him.

He darted after Zola, but Zola had a good lead on him. He heard a small plastic crunching sound, immediately identifiable by any parent as something breakable being broken, followed by a larger thump-thump-thump of harder things hitting softer things, softer things hitting harder things, and a plink or two for good measure. He entered the hallway in time to see the last tissue fall out of Meredith's purse into a pile of tissues and tampons, a hairbrush, some combs, a wallet, a cell phone, and countless other things that had already surrendered to gravity. His daughter fell onto her butt in the midst of the chaos already on the floor, and then Meredith's hulking purse fell on top of his daughter.

The purse was, really, more of a tote bag, and almost as big as Zola herself, but at least it was leather. And soft. And, if Derek was allowed an opinion, a black hole where all light and matter collapsed into pinpricks, but that was another matter altogether.

Zola only giggled on impact. Meredith's phone stopped ringing as it went to voice mail.

By the time Derek made it to Zola, Meredith's purse was draped across her tiny lap, the strap rested on Zola's head, and Zola sat in the middle of a huge pile of purse spillage like the eye of a volcano. Zola looked up at him with big brown eyes that made him melt, and held out Meredith's broken makeup palette to him. “Da!” she said, followed by a syllable that wasn't a word, really, just a jubilant reference to the new and fascinating mystery she'd found.

He lowered himself to his haunches, and then he sat to be at her level. His joints complained. He groaned a little. The floor creaked. But it was all an afterthought that barely brushed his mind.

“What did you find? That looks pretty interesting,” he said, his tone a deep, excited whisper to match the thrill sparkling in Zola's eyes.

He gently disentangled her from the purse straps, picked up all the loose articles, stuffed them back in Meredith's purse, and set the purse back on the end table where Meredith had originally left it, keeping a surreptitious eye on Zola while he did so. The palette appeared to be the only casualty of the fall. Kid, purse, tissues, tampons, brush, combs, wallet, cell phone, and everything else had made it through unscathed.

Zola stared at the small plastic rectangle, enthralled. The fall had popped off the lid, and a vast array of blue makeup shades stared back at them. Eyeshadow, he supposed, since blush didn't come in blue. Did it? Maybe, it did. But he'd never seen Meredith wear it. He had seen the blue eyeshadow, though. The palette still had a price tag on the see-through lid, and only one of the makeup wells had been disturbed, making him think Meredith might have just bought this one.

The first thing Zola did, naturally, was raise the palette to her lips.

“No,” Derek said firmly, and he made her lower her hand. “We don't put strange things in our mouth.”

She blinked at him. “Oh?”

“That's right.” He nodded. “No. Can you say that, yet?”

She ignored him and looked back at the palette, fascinated. She banged it on the floor once. A few crumby specks of blue in various shades spilled onto the hard wood – not really enough to call it a mess, but enough to fascinate his magpie daughter. She looked up at him and grinned. Her tiny, haphazard collection of teeth showed, and her eyes sparkled, and she looked **so** happy. The simple euphoria in her gaze made him feel euphoric, too, and he laughed with her.

She pulled her small index finger through the blue powder specks on the floor. She looked up at him and grinned so widely he thought he might burst, and in that moment, he wished Meredith were there, too, so she could share the moment with him. He didn't think she'd mind her brand new makeup getting ruined in exchange for a fantastic grin like that.

“It's messy stuff,” he said as he leaned for the diaper bag sitting next to Meredith's purse and pulled out some wipes. “I don't get why women use it.”

“Ma!”

“You read my mind,” Derek said. He cleaned off her blue finger and set the wipe aside.

“Ma!”

Derek grinned. “I agree. She's perfect without it, just like you.”

Zola banged the palette on the floor. More specks fell out onto the hard wood. The makeup brush... thing dislodged and spun on the floor. Actually, the “brush” looked more like two sponges connected by a plastic stick, though he didn't know what to call it. He'd seen Meredith use something like that any number of times. Zola tracked it with her gaze like a cat who'd found a mouse.

“Oh, what did you find, **now**?” he said playfully.

Distracted from her original bounty, she put down the palette. She pinched the wand thing between her tiny fingers and raised it to the light. “Da!” she said excitedly as she pointed it at him.

He laughed. “No, that's mommy's. Daddy doesn't use that stuff.”

“Ma!”

He nodded. “Exactly. Mommy's makeup.”

“Ma, ma, ma,” Zola said, waving the wand like a flag.

He sighed, watching her. He couldn't. Stop. Smiling. He'd always loved kids. Loved them. Always wanted one. He was an uncle to fourteen nieces and nephews, and he loved them all from zygote to college and wherever in between.

Nothing had prepared him for love he felt for this child, though. His child. Nothing had prepared him for the bursting inside way he felt whenever Zola did something new. Like walking. Or talking. Particularly walking and talking. Her spina bifida had made her first steps all that much more miraculous. Not many spina bifida babies could walk without any assistance at all, and somehow.... His eyes watered. Somehow, Zola had been one of the very few lucky ones, and he was grateful for that. More grateful than he could say.

“Ma!” she said, and Derek nodded.

He couldn't find his voice for a moment. He cleared his throat noisily. “Mommy had to work tonight,” he said. “I really wish she was here, though.”

Zola's first months of life had been in a foreign country, and they'd known she might have a little difficulty, at first, picking up a coherent vocabulary. They'd expected a few months of delay, at least, for the language gap, but she'd had none at all, and was picking up words right on schedule. She was doing so well, despite everything. Despite all of it.

His daughter.

“I really love you, you know,” he said.

She blinked at him. “Da!”

“Yeah,” he said roughly as she returned to looking at the wand as though it were the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen.

He could watch her discover things for hours.

Through that, he almost felt like, sometimes, he, too, was rediscovering things. Things he'd never paid any attention to before that, to a baby, could be the world in that moment. Simple things like palettes and powder and makeup sponge wand things.

A flash of inspiration struck him.

He lay down on his stomach beside her in the hallway. “You want to see something really cool?” he said.

Zola looked up at him and smiled. “Da!”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “I thought so.”

“Da!”

He nodded again. “Patience,” he said with a soft laugh.

He took her brush hand in his thumb and forefinger, and he guided her toward the palette, which rested on the floor by her knee. He pushed the tip of the sponge end of the brush into the top well of dark blue powder. Zola watched her hand being manipulated with fascination. Then he guided her hand toward his other wrist, and he left a blue line on his skin by his watch.

Her eyes widened, and she froze. And then she laughed and laughed and laughed.

“Blue is a funny color,” he agreed.

She looked at him like he'd done something magical. And not magic on the scale of rabbits in hats, either. Magic like he'd made the entire Empire State Building disappear or something. The sheer awe and happiness he found in her gaze was addictive.

He drew another line farther up his arm.

Another laugh.

Another line.

Another laugh.

The momentum of the moment sucked him in like a black hole, and he couldn't stop. He drew a blue dot on his nose, and he got a volcano of giggles for his trouble. She wobbled forward and pressed her hands into his cheeks. Touched the spot he'd left on his nose. Bits of blue came off on her fingers. She laughed, millimeters from his face, and he drank her amazement like fine wine. He rolled onto his back and raised her up, and she laughed. She dropped the wand midair. He set her down on top of him and picked it up for her.

“I think mommy does it like this,” he said informatively as he took the fatter sponge end, dipped it in the ruined palette, pressed it to his left eye, and drew an arc of indigo blue across the lid. His eye stung for a second, from the powder, he supposed, and he wondered why in the hell Meredith would want to subject herself to that, but then Zola laughed again, and he forgot his criticisms.

“What do you think?” he said. “No?”

He dragged the sponge across his other eye.

“Da!”

“Yeah,” he said, blinking against the sting. Maybe, he was slightly allergic. He'd never been in a position to try it out. “Beats me why they do this.”

Zola's giggles died to a simmer when he drew a line on his forehead just for shits, and he sighed, realizing that game was done, and that she'd lost interest. It was close to her bed time, anyway. He rolled into a sitting position, pulled her into his arms, and stood up with her. He left the powder and the wand and the ruined palette on the floor. He would clean it up after he had put her down for the night.

That was when his beeper went off against his belt.

“Da!” Zola said, glancing down at the noisy thing.

“I wonder if your mother figured out she doesn't have her purse,” he said.

He unclipped the pager from his belt, only to frown at the letters on the small display staring back at him. NE-BTOE-OH.

“Oh, no,” he said with a sigh. NE meant non-emergency. BTOE meant no excuses other than death would be accepted as a reason not to show up. In other words, be there or else. OH meant the page was from Owen.

Great. The boss.

He frowned. What could possibly be happening at work that Dr. Weller couldn't handle? Dr. Weller was one of the most capable neurosurgeons on staff. If Derek was going to get a page, he at least expected it to be a mass casualty, which was an emergency by its very nature.

And what was Derek supposed to do with Zola? The daycare center at the hospital wasn't open this late. Meredith was already at work. Mark was at work. Come to think of it, everybody he felt like he could call was at work already. And even though it was a non-emergency, he didn't exactly have a year to find and wait for a sitter to show up.

“Well,” he said. “I guess I could bribe a nurse to watch you for a second while I figure out what's going on.”

Zola stared at him.

“You have to smile, though. Bribery won't work if you don't smile.”

She smiled. “Da!”

“Yes, exactly like that. And you're not to learn this moral lesson. Okay? Expunge it from your memory. Bribery is not okay.”

“Da!”

He cleaned off Zola's hands one more time with the wipe he'd pulled out earlier, pushed the mess on the floor to the side with his shoe as he grabbed his keys. He already had his wallet. The car seat was in the car. It was dark, so Zola didn't need a sunhat or anything. If worse came to worst, they had anything a baby could need at work already.

Was he forgetting something? He didn't think so. He grabbed the diaper bag, slung it over his shoulder, grabbed Meredith's purse, slung that over his shoulder, re-straddled Zola over his hip, and locked the door.

Something niggled, though. Something niggled all the way to the car, until after he buckled Zola into her car seat, until after he buckled himself into the front seat, until after he turned the key in the ignition of his Cayenne, until after he had his hand on the parking brake. He glanced into the rear view mirror to make sure he could back up safely, and he yelled.

Literally yelled.

“Da!” Zola shrieked in solidarity.

He had blue eyeshadow all over his face. In the dark shadows of the car, he looked almost like The Joker or something. He looked down. He had blue eyeshadow all over his arm, still, too.

He unbuckled his seatbelt in a flash and reached into the baby bag in the back seat for a spit towel. A spit-covered spit towel, but it would have to do. He wiped off his nose and his forehead and his arm. The white towel slowly turned blue, indicating progress. He took a quick swipe at his eyes.

He glanced again in the rear view mirror. The blue on his nose was gone. So was the blue on his forehead. Zola smiled, and he shifted his attention to her for a long, lingering moment.

His beeper speared the silence, and he growled. “I'm working on it!” he said to nobody in particular. He threw the stained spit towel into the front seat, buckled his seat belt once more, and off he went.

Zola started crying about three minutes into the ride. Not crying. Wailing.

“Hang on,” he said.

He slammed the car to a stop at a yellow light, thankful for the excuse to have time to turn around. He twisted in his seat. Leather squeaked. As soon as he'd reached into the back seat, the unmistakable odor of a dirty diaper hit him in the face, and he grimaced. She'd been fighting a mild case of diaper rash and tended to start shrieking whenever anything other than her butt was sitting in her diaper.

Great. This night was turning into a night of exceedingly bad timing.

“I'll get it as soon as I can,” he explained, but that didn't stop Zola from wailing. “I know, I know, I'm sorry,” he said as he tore down the highway. Every sob he ignored made him feel worse, and worse, and worse.

By the time he parked the car, he felt horrible and frazzled, and he thought he might never be able to hear again because his ears rang. Wrestling Zola free from the car seat turned into another nightmare, because she was kicking and screaming like a banshee. Once he'd liberated his squirming demon from his car, he went straight to the admitting desk.

The receptionist locked eyes on him as soon as he walked through the doors. This late at night, the main hospital waiting area was mostly empty. A small family of four sat in peach-colored chairs by the door, looking dour and tear-stained. They glanced at him as he walked past in a torrent of racket and kicking baby.

The receptionist squinted at him as he approached. Blinked. Squinted harder. He looked at Zola. Her hair wasn't messed up. He'd learned how to deal with it. He'd aced the whole hair thing once Miranda had shown him how. Right?

Maybe, it was just the noise.

“Maddie,” he said loudly over the bedlam to the receptionist as he adjusted Zola against his hip. “Can you find out where they need me? I got a page, but it doesn't list a room.”

“Um,” she said, staring at him. “Dr. Shepherd....”

“What?” he said. He bounced Zola and tried to shush her, knowing it would be hopeless until he got her out of the soiled diaper. But he just didn't have any time.

Maddie picked at her eyelash, which was long and caked with mascara. “Dr. Shepherd, you have--”

Relief washed his frame when he saw his wife walking down the hall. She looked radiant.

“Meredith!” he called, interrupting Maddie. Meredith twitched at the sound of her name. Looked up at him. Smiled brightly for a nanosecond, but the smile collapsed when her gaze shifted to the very unhappy Zola. Then she looked back at him, and the collapsed smile became a real frown. She squinted, too.

She jogged over to him, dodging a janitor's mop bucket and two doctors chatting to the side of it. “What **happened**?” she said as the space between them waned. Her concern was far more weighty than he thought the situation merited. It was only a dirty diaper, after all....

“Got paged,” he said. “I'm **so** sorry to dump her on you like this, but can you take her?”

“No, I mean what happened to--” She shook her head. Took a quick glance at her watch. “Derek, I can't. I'm scrubbing in in five minutes. I was on my way to OR six.”

“But--”

“Derek,” she said. She squinted at him once more, gray eyes glinting in the light. Squinted at him just like the receptionist had. “Derek, seriously, what do you have on your--”

“Dr. Shepherd!” Owen said. Waved from across the room.

Meredith sighed and bit her lip at the interruption. She glanced at her watch. “I'm really sorry; I have to go,” she said.

“It's fine,” Derek said. He leaned to kiss her lips, and despite the frantic moment, he relished the taste of her skin. Would have paused to kiss her again if he hadn't had a crying baby, an impatiently gesticulating boss, a squinting receptionist, and a mysterious page to deal with. She seemed to stop and take a breath, too, and he wished that moment would stretch forever, but it didn't. It didn't, and he still had a crying baby, an impatiently gesticulating boss, a squinting receptionist, and a mysterious page to deal with. And Meredith had surgery. “It's fine, go.”

She made a move to bolt.

Then he remembered. “Wait!”

She looked at him.

He tipped his shoulder toward her. “Your purse. You forgot it.”

“Oh!” Meredith said. “I hadn't even noticed.”

“Zola got into it,” Derek said. “You might need to buy some new eyeshadow.”

She glanced at him. “Never would have guessed that,” she said wryly.

“What do you mean?” he said.

Her pager and his pager beeped simultaneously. She growled. “I'm sorry,” she said as she took her purse from his overladen shoulder. She leaned on her tiptoes. Gave him a quick, cute peck on the cheek that made him smile in spite of everything. And then off she went.

“I'm sorry,” said Owen as he replaced Meredith. He glanced at Zola. Raised his voice to get heard over the racket. He turned to the receptionist. “Maddie, can you call the ER and have them cancel that page? He's here, obviously.”

“The ER?” Derek said.

“Yes, sir,” Maddie said. She squinted at Derek one more time, and then she shrugged. She picked up the desk phone. She spoke in a low murmur to whoever was on the other line. The ER receptionist perhaps.

Derek glowered as he and Owen headed down the hall toward the ER, a short walk from the main admitting desk. What the hell was the squinting all about?

“Sorry to call you in on your day off,” Owen said. “We have a VIP patient. He demanded you.”

“Demanded me?” Derek said.

Owen nodded. “He said he'd donate $50,000 to our pro bono fund if you came. I don't know how he knows you. Maybe, from when you worked in New York.” And then he frowned. “Did somebody punch you?” he said.

“Um... no. Nobody punched me,” Derek said. “Why?”

“Then what is--”

“Wait,” Derek said. “Who is this VIP? What am I doing?” It was almost 8:00 PM now. He imagined not getting out of surgery until the morning. He could get a nurse to deal with Zola for a few minutes, but not for a long surgery like that. “Do I need to find somebody to take care of Zola?”

Everybody was staring at him, Derek realized. Everybody in the hall that passed him stared at him like he'd grown a second head with horns. What the hell?

Owen shrugged, oblivious to the scrutiny. “He's got a concussion. We think.”

“A concussion,” Derek parroted as they stepped into the bustling ER. “You think.”

“Yes,” said Owen.

Every single slot in the ER was full. Derek saw blood. And gore. And vomiting. Two interns doing sutures. Three cubicles had the curtains closed. Nurses ran back and forth with towels and suture kits and other supplies. It was a typical ER scene, one Derek saw on any typical day. But he saw nobody he knew, at least not patients. His curiosity burgeoned.

“You called me in on my day off to deal with a concussion that you're not even sure is a concussion?” he said.

Owen shrugged helplessly at him. “It's $50,000, Derek. I can't say no to a donation like that.”

“I guess not,” Derek said. “But for $50,000, you can babysit.”

He hoisted Zola off his shoulder and pushed her at Owen, who took her reflexively. Zola kicked. And she didn't stop wailing. If anything, she looked more miserable with Owen than she had with just the dirty diaper.

“But I'm--”

“Do you want the $50,000?” Derek said.

Owen sighed. “Yes.”

“Then you're changing a $50,000 dirty diaper,” Derek said. He pulled the diaper bag from his shoulder and gave it to Owen. “So, who is this VIP who knows me and maybe has a concussion?”

The fluttering curtains of the nearest closed cubicle opened at the seam, and a tall, lanky body stepped out, wearing nothing but a skimpy hospital gown that stopped well above mid-thigh. “It's Bond,” said the spindly, black-haired man as he held out a long, long arm attached to a huge hand. “James Bond.”

Derek gaped.

Zola wailed.

Owen frowned.

The tall man lowered his hand with a dramatic sigh. “Admittedly, that sounds better when Sean Connery says it,” he said. “Would you accept Knicks center for $300, Alex?”

“What are **you** doing here?” Derek said.

“Gee, Stewart,” Stewart said in a mocking falsetto. “It's so nice to see you! How long are you in town for? A concussion, you say? Why don't I take a look at that like the **awesome** brain surgeon that I am, because that's what brain surgeons do. They fix their brothers' concussions.” His voice dropped to its normal pitch. “And good **lord** , your daughter has a great set of pipes.”

“She has a dirty diaper,” Owen said. “Brother?”

“In law,” Derek clarified. “Brother-in- **law**. He's married to my younger sister Sarah.”

“Ah,” said Owen, nodding reasonably. As if there was nothing wrong at all with this situation.

“Oh, for crying 90 decibels out loud,” Stewart said, gesturing toward Owen for the baby and the diaper bag. Goods and sobbing, kicking baby were exchanged. Zola settled into her uncle's long arms, and Stewart turned to the gurney he'd been resting on moments earlier. Her wailing diminished from brain melting to almost tolerable.

“I didn't change it yet because I was rushing to save **you** ,” Derek said defensively as Stewart laid Zola out on the stretcher and put the diaper bag beside her.

“You know,” Stewart said. “I timed you. That was not rushing. If I were a real emergency, I'd probably be dead.”

“If you were a real emergency,” Derek said, “They, a, would have called it an emergency when they paged, and, b, would have sent said page to Dr. Weller, who's actually working here tonight. Not me.”

“Touché, my fair-faced friend,” Stewart said. “So, did I pull you out of a rehearsal? You need to keep me in the loop, more. I'd have saved this concussion for tomorrow morning or something. Though, really, why you'd wait to get into the theater until after leaving the home of Broadway, I couldn't guess.”

“What's happening tomorrow morning?” Derek said. “What rehearsal?”

“I bet it's _Cats_ ,” Stewart said, ignoring him. “Is it _Cats_? I think your mother would love to see you in _Cats_.” Stewart hooked his index and middle finger and made a gesture like he would tweak Derek's nose, and Derek flinched away. “You'd look so cute with whiskers, though I'm ambivalent about your singing voice.”

“I'm... not even sure what I'm being asked,” Derek said.

Stewart sighed and shook his head. “No love for poor, concussed Stewart,” Stewart said.

“I do, too, love you!” Derek snapped, the exact moment Zola seemed to give up on crying to get her diaper fixed. The words resounded through the entire ER bay and bounced off the walls.

Nurses and doctors and orderlies halted. Derek blushed like a stoplight.

“Antagonistic brother,” Stewart said helpfully, and he waved to the crowd.

“In law,” Derek clarified. “Brother-in- **law**.”

Everybody continued with their business.

“I get it,” Stewart said as he turned back to Derek, his voice deep with implied gravity. “You want to keep it a secret. It's not easy making such a drastic career change.” And then he frowned. “Or maybe I really **am** concussed.” He held out his hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Stewart, **what** are you talking about?” Derek said.

Stewart turned to Owen. “Three, right? Three fingers?”

“Yes,” Owen said.

Appeased, Stewart turned his attention to Zola, who'd started to wriggle on the gurney, rumpling the sheets. “Oh, you're just the cutest little thing,” Stewart said as he pulled at the dirty diaper. “Even cuter than the last time I saw you.” Even with the stench open to air, Stewart didn't flinch. “Wipes?” he said. He held out his hand like a surgeon expecting a ten-blade.

Derek rifled through the diaper bag for the wipes and handed them over, dumbfounded, while Stewart made goo goo eyes and funny faces at Zola. Zola shifted from grumpy silence to rapt amazement in the space of moments. She said something. Not a word. Just a syllable. Soo or something.

“That's me, the boy named Sue,” Stewart said with a bright smile. “Except it's really Stu. If you can throw a letter 't' in there, I'd be appreciative.”

“Soo!”

“Stu. With a 't'.”

“Da!”

“Now, that's just plain wrong,” Stewart said. “Uncle Da is only allowed in Arkansas.”

“Soo, soo, soo!”

“Okay,” Stewart said. “You win. We'll go with Sue.”

“She's not saying your name; she's just babbling,” Derek said. “She only knows like three words so far.”

“Shh,” Stewart said as he finished cleaning off Zola's bottom. “Let a man dream. Do you use baby powder?”

“No,” said Derek.

“Clean diaper, then?” said Stewart. He held out his hand again.

Owen pulled a diaper from the bag and handed it over. The sound of breaking tape stretched in the relative silence. Zola chirped and giggled. Stewart squirted some hand-sanitizer from the dispenser by the bed into his palms and tossed the loaded diaper into the brightly marked biohazard bin. Before Derek knew it, his maybe-concussed brother-in-law had a clean, happy Zola babbling about “Soo!” tucked in his arms.

And Derek still had absolutely no idea what the hell was going on.

“Stewart,” Derek said. “Seriously, **what** are you doing here?”

“The Sonics play the Knicks tomorrow, don't they?” said Owen.

“Yes, they do,” Stewart said as he rocked Zola in his arms. “The big bad Sonics are playing the Knicks tomorrow night, and your poor uncle has to start.”

Derek blinked. “What are you talking about? I thought the Sonics moved to Oklahoma.”

Stewart waved his hand dismissively. “It's a big PR money-making hoopla thing. They're trying to bring them back to Seattle. Do you not read any newspapers, man?”

“I work eighty plus hour weeks fixing NBA centers with maybe-concussions, I have a one-year-old, and I don't care about basketball. When would I have the time or desire?”

Stewart shook his head. “That's just criminal.”

“What's criminal?” Derek said.

“Not caring about basketball, yet somehow, you enjoy baseball,” Stewart said. “I could have a long coma in the time it takes to play a baseball game. Where's the excitement, man?”

“Basketball is just ping pong with a bigger ball,” Derek said. “Back and forth and back and forth. It's boring.”

Stewart paled. “Yeah,” he said. And he, for once, didn't crack a joke.

“Hey,” Derek said, concerned for the first time since his brother-in-law had appeared. He touched his Stewart's bony shoulder. Squeezed. “Why don't you give the baby to Dr. Hunt?”

“But I like the baby,” said Stewart. He backed up a step, his shoulders curling defensively. “My babies have grown into miniature women capable of intelligent machinations. I really need a loaner baby to cuddle right now.” That was when Derek noticed the sweat on Stewart's brow.

Owen looked between the two of them. “Well... it looks like you have things under control. I'll just....”

“Yeah,” Derek said.

“Page me if you need any help,” Owen said.

He backed slowly out of the cubicle, and then he left, leaving Derek, Stewart, and Zola alone in the small ER stall. Derek pulled the curtains closed and turned to Stewart, who, out of the scrutiny of countless wandering ER staff, slumped against the gurney like he might collapse. Zola cooed at him, and the big man gave her a weak, wavering smile. Stewart set the baby on the gurney as if he thought he might drop her if he didn't.

“Don't you worry,” he said. “Uncle Sue is fine.” And then he sighed. Looked up at Derek. “Could you just... give me a doctor's note or something? Say I'm concussed and can't play?”

“Stewart....”

“I could act punch drunk. I'm good at acting real drunk. I had practice at it just last night.”

“Stewart,” Derek said softly. “Did you hit your head or not?”

“No,” said Stewart.

“Then what's going on?”

Stewart shifted from his left foot to his right. His lips peeled back in a grimace. A barely strangled groan twisted in his throat. He pawed at the gurney. Derek rushed to support him. Stewart panted. Lowered himself onto the stool beside the gurney. He looked at Zola, and his eyes brightened.

“She is really cute, you know,” Stewart said warmly, his words choppy as he struggled against... something. Pain, from the look of him, Derek decided. “I'm **so** glad you and Meredith got her back,” Stewart continued.

“Me, too,” Derek said, a lump forming in his throat. “Very much. Every day. But, Stewart... what's--”

“It's my knee,” Stewart confessed. “I could barely get off the plane this afternoon. Snapped as soon as I stood up. It's going to go for real if I play tomorrow. I need that note.”

Derek stared at his brother-in-law. Stewart had been having problems with that knee for years. He'd collapsed nearly a decade ago at the end of a pivotal game. He'd been sidelined for months while he recovered, and since then, it'd never been the same, but he'd soldiered on despite Sarah urging him to retire to save his health.

“I can't fabricate a concussion, and I don't fix knees,” Derek said. “Can't you talk to your trainer?”

“If my knee goes, I'm done, Derek,” Stewart said. “I don't want to lose my job.”

“But players get benched for injuries all the time.”

Stewart shook his head. “Not at my age. I'm already having trouble keeping up. They've been watching me.”

“Don't you think you might be blowing this out of proportion?” Derek said.

“I'm not really starting tomorrow. It's a PR game. It doesn't even count for anything, and I'm not starting. I haven't been MVP in years, and they know it.”

Stewart sighed. He swiped his hand through his wispy black hair. Dark circles hugged his eyes. He looked tired. More tired than Derek could ever remember him being. Stewart had a zest for life. A _joie de vivre_ Derek had never found duplicated in another human being. Derek stared at his brother-in-law. The man was clearly in pain, if nothing else.

“I could page someone in orthopedics to look at it,” Derek said, thinking of Dr. Torres.

Stewart stared at the floor. “They'll tell me I need knee surgery, and knee surgery means I retire, anyway. I'm thirty-eight. I'm a dinosaur in the NBA. I'm done if I'm out for more than a game or two.”

“You've seen a surgeon about it, then?” Derek said.

“I've seen five. They all say the same thing.”

“Have you thought more about retiring?” Derek said.

Stewart didn't speak, but his steely, obstinate gaze answered for him. Stewart had thought about it all right. And subsequently smashed the thought to bits with a metaphorical mallet.

Derek sighed. It felt wrong. So wrong to do this, and he was a bit irritated Stewart had put him in this position, but there **was** the charity donation to consider....

“You're sure you didn't hit your head?” Derek said, hoping Stewart would identify the prodding in Derek's tone. Derek wouldn't fabricate a concussion out of thin air. He absolutely would not lie on a patient form. There was a checklist neuro had to follow for assessing head injuries, and he would stick to it. But if Stewart could work with him just a little....

Stewart stared for a long moment. “Well, I guess I could have,” he said slowly. “It's hard to remember.”

Derek nodded. “Do you have a headache?”

“Frankly, I'm so hungover, my head feels like goo,” Stewart said.

“So, yes, it hurts?” Derek said.

Stewart nodded.

“Can you rate the pain, one to ten, ten being the worst pain you've ever experienced?”

“Um,” Stewart said, considering, “two point five seven three?”

Derek peered at Stewart.

“What!” Stewart said, throwing up his hands. “I'm trying to be exact. I rounded down, by the way.”

“Any nausea?” Derek said.

“I believe that's part and parcel with the goo,” Stewart said.

“Any new pain when I do this?” Derek said. He splayed his fingers and pressed his hand against Stewart's head. Derek squeezed like he were testing for a ripe fruit, though, in reality, it was a quick way to find out if a patient had a broken skull. He shifted and squeezed in several places.

“Mostly, it feels like you're squeezing my head,” Stewart said. “Why are you squeezing my head?”

“Okay, remember these words,” Derek said. “Cat, mouse, rat, horse, pig, cow, dog, dragon, hamster, goldfinch, rattlesnake, duck, duck, goose, chinchilla, and a partridge in a pear tree.”

“Wait,” Stewart said. “Wait, what? Isn't that list only supposed to be three words long?”

Derek held out an index finger. “Follow with my finger with your eyes only.” He dragged his hand left and right and up and down and then back to the center in front of Stewart's face. Stewart's gaze followed him with no trouble, no deviation. Neither pupil was blown.

“All right,” Derek said. He moved away from the stool and moved all the way back to the curtain. He pointed at the silver line between the big floor tiles, which connected the space between Derek and Stewart. “Can you walk in a straight line to me?”

“You're kidding, right?” Stewart said. “I can barely walk at **all** right now. I'm surprised I managed my awesome entrance.”

“James Bond, barefoot in a hospital gown that could qualify as a miniskirt, with no gun, and no Bond Girl, is awesome?” Derek said.

“Sarah's my Bond Girl,” Stewart grumbled. “She's busy tonight, but still very sexy and Bond Girlish, I might add. You know, just not residing in this state.”

Derek shook his head. “You left your wife in New York when you could be showing her beautiful, rainy Seattle? What kind of husband are you?”

“The kind of husband who knows his wife likes cutting people open and fully supports it.”

“Um,” Derek said.

“That sounded wrong,” said Stewart.

“Yeah,” Derek said. He gestured at the floor. “So, can you walk the line?”

“Not like Joaquin Phoenix,” Stewart said.

Derek rolled his eyes. “I can't fabricate a concussion,” he said.

Stewart stared at him for a long moment. “Okay, Mrs. Doubtfire,” he said. “That color really brings out your eye, by the way. I like it. Very chic.”

“What are you talking about?” Derek said.

“Oh, nothing,” Stewart said.

Derek winced as he watched Stewart sigh and struggle to stand. Stewart leaned against the gurney, panting to gather strength. His arms shook with the strain of holding up such a big body with minimal pressure on his legs. And then he pushed away. Tried to limp the ten feet toward Derek. He made it four before he swerved back to the gurney with an agonized grimace across his face.

“Ow,” Stewart said. “Oh, ow. This is very much ow. And I feel a little like I'm failing the SATs.”

“Soo!” said Zola helpfully.

And Stewart grimace became a twisting smile. “Uncle Sue is very, very ow,” he said to the baby. He bopped her on the nose with his index finger and stuck his tongue out at her. She giggled.

“Can you recite the words I told you back to me?” Derek said.

“I know there was a chinchilla,” Stewart said. “And some ducks. And maybe a hamster.”

Derek nodded, satisfied. He grabbed Stewart's chart from the foot of the gurney, pulled a pen from his pocket, and began to scribble. “Headache, nausea,” Derek said. “Can't walk in a straight line. Can't remember a simple list. It doesn't look too serious, but I suggest you take it easy for a few days. Do you have somebody to watch you overnight?”

“Not really,” Stewart said. “I'm in my own hotel room. And that list was **not** simple. It was Noah's Ark with dragons.”

Derek ignored the dig. “Why don't you come home with me, then, and I'll keep an eye on you?”

Stewart's eyes widened. “But--”

“I can't let you go home by yourself without suggesting you have an MRI. Unless you want to deal with Dr. Hunt discovering his coveted $50,000 charity donation is really just $25,000, because there's no way I'm letting you make an insurance claim for this 'concussion,' you need a babysitter to watch you overnight, or you need to fill out an AMA form,” Derek said, putting the word concussion in air quotes. “I stop at quack diagnoses for stubborn brothers-in-law. At least those don't game the health care system or hurt anybody except you.”

Stewart stared at him. “Thanks.” He hobbled closer. Winced. “Thanks, man.” And then he almost swooned. He and his gangly pile of limbs toppled back into the stool, and his pallor slipped from peachy to ash white.

“Do you need a prescription for pain?” Derek said. There was no fraud in that, Derek thought. Stewart looked like he was in agony.

“Um,” Stewart said. He took a short breath and blew it out. His loose hair went flying. “No.”

Derek's eyes widened.

“Da!” Zola said. She held up her arms. Derek picked her up off the gurney. He gave her a kiss on the forehead.

Then he turned back to Stewart. “Stewart, what are you doing to yourself for this game?”

“I need to play,” he said.

“Stewart....”

“You're smart,” Stewart said. “You and Sarah are both smart. That's why you're doctors. Your whole family is a bunch of smart, nerdy doctors. What am I without basketball? I barely graduated, and I got drafted right out of high school.”

“You'll figure out something,” Derek said. “And you're not stupid. College isn't for everyone, and that doesn't always have to do with intelligence.”

Stewart sighed.

“Look,” Derek said. “Let me turn in your release papers and find Meredith to tell her we have a house guest while you get dressed. We can talk more about this in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” said Stewart sullenly.

Derek turned to leave.

“Hey, can I watch the baby?” Stewart said. “I could use a cheerleader in a cute dress right about now.”

“Soo!” Zola gurgled.

She waved her hands toward Stewart, and Derek's eyes narrowed. Maybe Soo wasn't just a random syllable after all. She'd clearly attached the sound to Stewart. She seemed enamored with him, just as she had been when he'd visited before her first birthday, though she'd been several words less articulate back then. Stewart had taken a flight up to Seattle after a game in Sacramento.

Derek gave Zola to Stewart, who took the girl with gentle arms. A big smile stretched across Stewart's face as he looked down at his tiny charge. Zola blinked and yawned. “Perfect painkiller,” Stewart said, his tone soft and reverent.

“No corrupting my baby while I'm gone,” Derek cautioned.

Stewart looked at Derek. “There's an idea. I'll teach her a beer name for every letter in the alphabet before she's two.”

Derek snorted. “You know one for 'x'?”

“ _Dos Equis, mi doctor_ ,” Stewart said with a dramatic flourish and an exaggerated Latin lilt. “ _Es mi veneno de elecci_ _ó_ _n._ My poison of choice.”

“Right,” Derek said. “Okay then.” He looked dubiously at Zola. Ten minutes. Stewart couldn't teach her that much about beer in ten minutes.

Derek stepped through the curtain and into the ER bay. He took Stewart's chart and release forms to the main desk, dodging nurses and orderlies. He almost ran into an intern carrying a pile of charts.

“Sorry, sir!” the woman said. She fidgeted with her strawberry-colored hair as she stared at him. Squinted at him. Just like everybody else. Her knuckles turned white as she clenched her charts and bit her lip in what could only be described as... confusion.

“It's okay,” he said warily, and she darted away.

When he arrived at the front desk, he received more squinting for his trouble, and even a giggle. A giggle! What was **with** people today? Had Zola spit up in his hair or something? Self-consciously, he combed his fingers through his hair. It'd been his day off. He hadn't bothered much with putting it in order. Maybe, he'd developed an Afro. His hair did that when he wasn't careful.

He'd started to blush like he was on fire by the time he escaped the ER. He jogged through the halls. Not because he was in a hurry, but to keep ahead of all the mysterious, mind-boggling squinting. He bumped into Meredith as she exited the elevator, and she looked glum, but she brightened when she saw him.

“Hey,” she said.

“I thought you were scrubbing in,” he said, concerned. “I was headed to OR six to find you.”

“I was,” she said. “He died before I even finished washing my hands.”

“Oh,” Derek said. “Are you okay?”

Meredith shrugged. “Sure. I didn't know him at all. He wasn't even my patient. I'm more bummed about missing the surgery.”

Still, Derek wrapped his arms around her anyway, and she sighed in his embrace. He rubbed her back. Buried his nose in her hair. The lavender scent of her hair soothed him, and for a moment, he forgot about the craziness he seemed to be stuck in for the night. That was, he forgot until he saw a nurse squinting at him over Meredith's shoulder.

Irritated, he pulled away and shifted to place Meredith between him and the squinter. Which only made him grind his teeth. What had this come to? Using Meredith. As a shield. That was sort of pathetic. He stepped back to the side, presenting his full profile to the staring nurse, all while Meredith bit her lip and watched him with the soft glimmer of amusement lighting her eyes.

“Do you have a problem?” he asked the nurse.

The nurse, a young man with a blond buzz cut, held up his hands and backed away. “No problem, man,” he said. And he disappeared down the hall in a slow, deliberate way that made it seem not so much like a hasty retreat, though it was one. It totally was. Derek glared down the hall at the guy.

“I just don't **get** it,” Derek said, shaking his head.

When he turned back to his wife, he found Meredith staring at him, a short, hitching breath away from a giggle. She bit her lip, and her cheeks had turned a becoming shade of pink. He rolled his eyes and kissed her. When he pulled back, she grinned.

“I guess I should laugh more often,” she said.

He smirked. “You like the kissing?”

She nodded. “Mmm,” she said. “I like the kissing. More kissing, I say.”

His heart warmed as he searched her face. Counted all the freckles and cataloged that moment. God, he loved her. Would love her for the rest of his days.

“So, what happened with your page?” she said softly.

“It was Stewart,” Derek replied.

“Stewart...?”

“Brother-in-law. Tall. Willowy. Black hair. Thinks he's good looking.”

“Oh,” Meredith said. “That Stewart! Right. Is he here for the Sonics game?”

“Did everybody know about that but me?” Derek said.

Meredith looked up and snickered at him. “You must have been too busy primping to watch the news.”

“Meredith,” Derek said. “You've seen me without hair gel. It's a service to the universe that I spend time on it.”

“No, I meant....” Meredith sighed. Leaned closer to him. Smiled an enchanting, sly smile. “Please, don't take this the wrong way,” she said, murmuring against his ear, “but when I said always go with blue, I didn't mean for you to do... well... this.”

“Do what?” he said.

“You... ah....” She brushed her eyelids with the tips of her fingers. And then she coughed.

Silence stretched.

Finally, the dots connected. All the squinting. Stewart's oblique references to the theater. Owen asking Derek if he'd been punched. He clapped his hands over his eyes and scrubbed with his knuckles.

“No!” he said. “I thought I got it all off!”

“You really didn't,” Meredith said kindly.

“Oh, my god,” Derek said. “This whole time?” He yanked at his shirt sleeve and wiped at his skin. “I'm never ever going to live this down.”

“It's only the one eye,” Meredith said. “Your left.”

“One!” Derek said. That somehow felt even worse than two. Because one was a blatant mistake, rather than blatant choice, like two. He scrubbed harder, but his shirt came back clean. “Does this stuff even come off? Why the hell do you wear it? Did I get it all?”

“Hold still,” she said. She spat on her hand and raised her finger.

“You're not spit cleaning me,” Derek said, backing up. “No way.”

“Sorry,” Meredith said, blushing. “Zola habit.”

He spit on his thumb and tried to clean it off himself, but from Meredith's giggle, he gathered it didn’t work.

“Some soap should do it,” Meredith said. “Maybe a little makeup remover if it really sticks. If you leave it on, it's harder to get off just by wiping at it. Was it the new palette in my purse? That's waterproof.”

“Yeah,” Derek said with a sigh. “Makeup remover... waterproof... great. And now I have to drive home with Stewart, knowing I have a blue eye.”

“Stewart's going home with you?” Meredith said.

“Yeah,” Derek said. “We sort of... have a house guest for a day or two. I was coming to warn you. I hope that's all right.”

She nodded. “It's all right.” Her pager went off, and she pulled it out of her pocket to stare at it with a look of consternation that quickly dissipated. Her lips stretched into a grin. “Another surgery. I'll be home for breakfast.”

“Maybe, I can bribe Stewart to make repayment omelets and toast or something,” Derek muttered.

“I like omelets and toast,” Meredith said.

“I know you do,” Derek said. “Good luck!”

“Thanks,” she said.

She squeezed his hands before she slipped away, and they parted. Derek did an about face and went back the way he'd come. Through the hallways full of squinting staff. He met each squint with what he hoped constituted a defiant glare. If he was going to wear eyeshadow at work, he would damned well do it with pride. Whatever he managed, it seemed to work, because the squinting became less, or at least more surreptitious.

When he returned to the ER cubicle where he'd left Stewart, he found Stewart lying on the gurney wearing faded blue jeans and an old Knicks t-shirt. He was too tall for the gurney, and his big feet hung over the end. Zola straddled Stewart's chest, looking down at him. Her tiny hands played with his shirt, making tents and pulling at the old letters. His color had returned, now that he'd taken his substantial weight off his knee, and he looked a lot better.

“I know I'm not going to make it past this season,” Stewart was saying as Derek passed through the curtain. “There's no way. It's just... I'm not ready. You know?”

“Soo!”

“Yeah,” Stewart said. “I thought you'd have valuable insight. Do you do horoscopes, too?”

Zola stared at him.

Stewart smiled as he looked up at her. “You, young lady, better not be an athlete when you grow up. You should be a nerdy doctor just like your mommy and daddy and all your crazy aunts. Then you'll never have to quit doing what you love until you're good and ready. That's my advice. Take it or leave it.”

“Ready to go?” Derek said, the words soft.

Stewart nodded. He groaned as he sat up, sliding Zola down to his lap as he did so.

“You're really good with kids,” Derek said.

Stewart shrugged. “Sometimes, I feel like they're more on my intellectual level.”

“No,” Derek said. “I mean you're **really** good with kids, Stewart.”

Stewart looked at Derek suspiciously. “You're not trying to con me into being your babysitter, are you? Manhattan to Seattle is a long commute, you know. Is there an expense account?”

Derek grinned. “Just think about it.”

“Think about what?” Stewart said. “Corrupting Zola while you're at work?”

“Maybe you could be an ambassador for a fitness program at a school or something,” Derek said. “Or, hell, a spokesperson for some charity – they love celebrities.”

Stewart snorted. “Maybe.”

“Just saying,” Derek said. “You have options. Don't pretend like you don't.”

Stewart handed Zola to Derek. Zola settled in Derek's arms over his hip. Derek bounced her once. Twice. She barely smiled. He would have a really cranky baby if they didn't get home soon, so he could put her down.

Stewart struggled to his feet with a grimace. He put a wobbling hand on Derek's shoulder and grabbed the diaper back with his other hand. With Derek's support, he limped out of the cubicle.

“Maybe, I could just be a dad,” Stewart mused, panting as they progressed through the bay. Derek ignored the squinting crowd. “I do like kids, but I like my kids in particular.”

“There you go,” Derek said.

“Stewart Manning. Stay at home dad.”

“Almost sounds like a superhero,” Derek said.

Stewart grinned. “It does, doesn't it? And I can always play a background cat in your show, if it doesn't work. Have you learned the words to 'Memory,' yet?”

“Oh, shut up,” Derek said.

“Finally noticed it, huh?” Stewart said.

“It made Zola laugh,” Derek explained.

“No judgment,” Stewart said.

“Really?” Derek said.

Stewart nodded. “I have daughters, too, you know,” he said.

“What color did you get stuck with?” Derek said.

“I tried on some lipstick,” Stewart said. “Thought I got it all off. Sarah was very mad until she realized it was hers.”

Derek snorted.

“I know, I know,” Stewart said. “Laugh it up, Mrs. Doubtfire.”

“I thought you said no judgment!” Derek protested.

Stewart smirked. “I did, but I didn't say no teasing.”

Chuckling, they hobbled out the ER bay doors and into the wet air.


End file.
